


and the steel gleaming

by fanfoolishness (LoonyLupin), LoonyLupin



Series: Chapter and Verse (Varric Tethras x Min Hawke) [13]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst, F/M, Major Character Injury, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-18
Updated: 2019-03-18
Packaged: 2019-11-23 09:27:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18150071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoonyLupin/pseuds/fanfoolishness, https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoonyLupin/pseuds/LoonyLupin
Summary: Hawke almost died dueling the Arishok.  Maybe a part of Varric really did.





	and the steel gleaming

Funny, for a dwarf with an eye for scene and detail, there was sure a fucking lot he missed that day. **  
**

He didn’t hear the cheers, raggedly drawn from the throats of the terrified nobles.  He didn’t hear the Qunari terms of peace, laid down in slow methodical words over the Arishok’s corpse.  He didn’t hear the footsteps of the people, Qunari and Kirkwaller alike, leaving the chamber.  

Instead a ring of words pounded in his head, a steady droning rhythm.  Someone had said them forever ago, but Varric still hadn’t managed to parse the meaning.  Wasn’t he supposed to be good at wordplay?  He couldn’t figure these out, though.

_She’ll be all right.  She’ll be all right.  She’ll be all right._

But how the shit could he believe that when he’d seen the Arishok’s blade run her through?

Varric shuddered, a vicious, whole-body roil that almost ended with him getting sick on the floor.  He swallowed his gorge back, sucking in deep gulps of air – but the air itself seared with the metallic tang of blood, and he gagged again, barely keeping it together.

_Think of something else._   He glanced back at the Arishok’s crumpled body, forgotten in the far corner where he’d fallen.  Someone had covered him with a tapestry, some half-assed attempt at decorum.  Varric could still see the old bastard’s horns sticking out from under the woven wool.  It made him smirk for a second.  That helped.

He looked away from that mess and caught Anders’ eyes.  He’d been afraid to look after –  But Blondie crouched on the floor with Hawke’s dog beside him, Min cradled tenderly in his arms.  She looked calmed, her cheeks a warm brown once again instead of that drained, terrible paleness they’d worn a few minutes ago.  She was still covered in blood and swollen-eyed, but she looked alive again.

Definitely better than the alternative.

“She’ll be all right,” Anders said again, and this time Varric realized it wasn’t his own thoughts repeating the phrase, but the real man.  Anders was white-faced, dazed, looking as shaken as Varric.  “But we need to get her home.  She needs rest.”

“Let me help,” Fenris said, his face settling into a grim, tense mask.  “Healing her has nearly killed you as well.”

“ _You_  suggested the bloody duel –” Anders began, fire glinting suddenly in his eyes.  At his side Molossus whined, sensing danger.

Varric stepped between them, waving arms that felt improbably heavy.  He was exhausted, even though he hadn’t been the one dueling.  He supposed the events of the past twenty-four hours had finally caught up to him.

The effort it took to speak was surprising.  He managed anyway.  “And she chose to fight it,” said Varric.  “You got a problem?  Take it up with her.”

“The dwarf is right, as usual,” Hawke murmured, stirring in Anders’ arms.  “It was the only way.”  She coughed, blood flecking her lips, and Anders’ focus immediately returned to her and her alone.  She blinked owlishly when Anders kissed her on the forehead.  “Why do I feel so fucking awful?”

“Come,” said Fenris, his voice softening.  “You need to rest, Hawke.  As do you, mage.”

“I’ve got her,” said Anders roughly.  “Just help me up.”

Varric followed after them, his head swimming, weird patches of detail piercing his fog intermittently.  There was Molossus, nosing Hawke’s cheek and woofing gently.  Fenris and Anders, each gripping the other’s hand, the shorter elf hauling the gangling mage to his feet.  The way Hawke’s arm slung over Anders’ neck with a practiced familiarity.  Fenris stopping, bending, carefully collecting Hawke’s daggers from the floor.

The floor.  Varric stared at the carpet where Hawke had lain: stared at the wine-dark pool of blood on its surface, redolent of rust and copper.  There was so much blood that its sheen reflected flickers of torchlight like an oil slick; so much he could see the heavy curve of it resting atop the carpet, too thick and clotted to soak in.  

So much blood, and all of it hers.

 

***

 

He tried to sleep.  Honestly, he did.  

He knew rest would be good for him after the madness of the attack on the city, the horror of what had happened to Hawke.  He and Fenris had both retreated from Hawke’s estate to go recover once Hawke and Anders had gotten safely inside.  It had sounded good on paper.

But it wasn’t in the cards tonight.  Not with snatches of memory jostling in his mind’s eye every time he tried to drift off, flashes crowding out the darkness.  Images like blood vessels burst in the whites of Hawke’s eyes, the rattle as she’d tried to breathe before Anders’ magic saved her; images like her mouth open in a wordless scream, the wicked blade running  _through_ , and the steel gleaming, gleaming red –

So here he was in Hightown in the gray pre-dawn light, cold and cursing himself and his stupid vivid imagination.   _She’s fine.  Blondie said she’d be fine._   It was just that he couldn’t believe it, tossing and turning in the wide bed at the Hanged Man.  

Gallingly, the bar had been looted so he couldn’t even drink himself to sleep with Corff’s worst whiskey.  The stuff could take down a bronto, it was said, though all Varric had wanted was to knock out one uneasy dwarf.

He shook his head, cursing his luck, then rapped his knuckles against the door of Hawke’s estate.  After a few moments the door opened to reveal Bodahn with a lamp in hand.  “Well, good night to you, Messere  Tethras!  Or is it good morning?”  He peered outside.  “Hard to tell right about now, isn’t it?”  

“It’s both way too late to be staying up, and way too early to get out of bed,” said Varric, shrugging.  “I hate to bother you right now, Bodahn –”

“But you’re worried about Messere Hawke.  Of course, of course.  Come on in.”  He ushered Varric inside and gave him a sympathetic smile.  “We were all so worried about her when we saw the state she was in.  Orana wept, and I don’t mind saying I was frightened myself.  My boy Sandal was inconsolable until we knew she would be all right.  He’s always looked up to her so.”

Varric knew there was a joke in there to be made about dwarves and heights and humans, but he wasn’t in the mood.  He simply nodded.  “How’s she doing?”

“She did ask for you earlier, now that I recall,” supplied Bodahn.  “Perhaps she’s still awake.  Messere Anders is with her now.  It’s been very hard on him, of course.  Why, I couldn’t believe it when he said she fought the  _Arishok_.  In single combat?  You’ll have to forgive me, I wasn’t expecting Kirkwall to be so – well, violent!  Never thought I’d have to worry about keeping my boy safe from Qunari.  And here I thought Ferelden during the Blight was a challenging place to live.”

“Ah, come on, Bodahn.  You and I both know Kirkwall’s a shithole,” said Varric mildly.  It was simple inescapable fact.

“Now, though, it has its charms,” Bodahn began.  He paused for a moment, deep in thought.  “It’s got very interesting architecture, for one!”

Varric chuckled, a dry, papery sound that hurt his throat.  “You’ve got me there.  Interesting’s definitely one word for it.”  He considered.  “You said she asked for me?  Hopefully she’s awake again.  I’ll just go on up and say hello, if she’s doing better.”

He took the stairs quickly, hardly noticing his surroundings.  He’d only been up here once before, after Leandra, but he knew the way.

“Hello?” he called, heading to the room with the candlelight spilling through the cracked door.  He poked his head in to see Anders, bent over the fine four-poster bed, deep in concentration.  A faint aura of golden light surrounded him, but it was much dimmer than that of his usual healing state.

“Hallo, Varric,” said Anders, not taking his gaze from the bed.  Varric edged inside, noting that Hawke was bundled up in the covers, the only visible part of her a mop of dark tangled hair against a pile of pillows.

Words erupted from his mouth.  He tried to temper them, to tamp the sudden rising panic down.  “She’s still okay, right?”

“She’s doing better.  Though I’m afraid she’s fallen asleep again,” said Anders, straightening up.  He looked exhausted, a smear of Hawke’s dried blood on his cheek, his hair at odd angles, rips in his robes.  Blondie’d taken a beating in the fight up to the Viscount’s Way, but Varric suspected it was the strain of healing Hawke that had hit him the hardest.

“I thought she was just asking for me,” said Varric, trying to hide his disappointment.   _She’s all right.  Isn’t that enough?_  He knew the answer, though.

Anders huffed ruefully.  “She was, earlier.  Something about how you owed her a pint for doing something incredibly stupid.”  He gave her a fond, if almost teary, look.  “Don’t worry.  It’s normal, you see, after healing of this magnitude.  She’ll be in and out of a deep sleep for a few days, I predict.  I’m sorry if Bodahn got your hopes up.”  He sat down heavily in one of the chairs by Hawke’s desk, then nodded at Varric.

Varric settled into the other chair, his feet failing to reach the floor.  “Mind if I wait around for a bit?  Just in case she comes to again?”

Anders gave him a weak smile.  “Of course, Varric.”  He leaned over in his chair, resting his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands.  “That damned Arishok.  Why she thought she could best him in a duel–”

“She did, though.”   _Got to remember that.  Don’t think about what almost happened._

“Watching it was excruciating,” Anders mumbled.  “Knowing they would kill her outright if I moved to help her – I was going mad.  It was torture, and I don’t use the word lightly.  This was  _torture_.”

“I know,” said Varric, looking down at his boots.  The floor between them was clean, pristine, plush carpet with a nice pattern.  No blood here.  “Scared the shit out of all us.”

“How could I have let her do it?” he choked.  

“Come on, now.  She’s Hawke.  She does what she wants.  Think she’d let you get in the way if she thought she was doing the right thing?”  Varric reached across, jostled the mage’s arm with his elbow.

A weary chuckle.  “Fair enough.  But I keep wondering about what might have happened.  I did everything I could for her.”  His voice dropped.  “It nearly wasn’t enough.”

“Don’t say things like that, Blondie,” said Varric warningly.  It was one thing for Varric’s imagination to run away with him.  It was another thing entirely to hear the healer say it.  Because if Anders thought that,  _Anders_ , the one who’d held her life in his hands – Varric thought he might never sleep again.

“But it’s true.  I almost lost her, you know,” Anders whispered through his hands.  “I could feel her slipping away.  I reached for every bit of mana I could muster, but I couldn’t staunch the bleeding, not at first, and I could feel her growing fainter and fainter –” There was a rough, muffled sound, and then Anders’ shoulders shook, seized with sobbing breaths.

Varric quickly averted his eyes, wildly searching for something else in the room to look at, ending back at his boots again.  Shit.  It made sense – all that pent-up terror and guilt and worry and care, it had to come out somehow –  but the fact remained, he wasn’t good at dealing with shit like this.  Hawke was always so much better at this.

For a moment longer than he liked to admit, he thought of just getting up and leaving.  Maybe it’d be better to let Anders figure it out on his own; maybe he’d just be embarrassed to have Varric stick around.  If it was him, he wouldn’t want one of the others fussing over him –

_But it’s not you, is it?_

He sat still for a moment.  Smoothed the cloth of his trousers beneath his gloved hands.  Stretched the fingers out, watched them still until he could no longer see a tremor.

He reached for Anders and gripped him by the shoulder, his leather glove firm on the feathered accents.  “It’s all right, Blondie.  She’s gonna be fine.”  He took a breath.  “She’s got you, doesn’t she?”

 

****

 

He sat in his room in the Hanged Man, oblivious to the noise downstairs that meant Corff had discovered a forgotten barrel of his terrible whiskey.  The resultant cheers and bellows faded into the background, as did a lot of other things.  He’d lit a fire some time ago, he knew that much.  How long had it been?

The fire sputtered, guttered, gave itself to soot and ashes.  Candles on the table dripped wax on the wood in crimson puddles.  He wished they weren’t red.  He made a note to purchase white ones tomorrow.

He’d finally slept a little during the day.  He’d come back home after Hawke woke up again, insisted on hugging him, and winced from the contact, then tried to punch him in the shoulder and winced again.  He could still feel her tap on his shoulder, weak as a kitten’s.

“Not even you can get away with that kind of bullshit, Sparrow.  Taking on the Arishok single-handedly?  How am I going to make it sound convincing?  Nobody’s going to believe it.”

“That’s your greatest concern, is it?  The story?”

Ahhh, he could never lie to her.  At least, not about that.  “Come on, Hawke.  Just… try to be a little more careful next time, all right?”

“So you  _were_  worried about me?  Oh Varric, I’m touched.”  A sweet sentiment, followed by a lazy wink and a racking cough.

Blondie had shooed him away, citing Hawke’s need to rest, always the attentive healer.  But she’d called out, “Don’t forget, you owe me a pint!” as he left.  And Varric had smiled, even while Anders led him further away, even while Anders was the one to stay.

He gazed at the cooling fireplace, then returned his attention to the matter at hand.  Ink stained his fingertips, visible even in the dimming light.  Clumsy of him. It wasn’t surprising, though; this wasn’t elegant work.  It was cheaper than that.  More desperate.

He thought of blood clotted on the carpet.  He thought of panic, and terror, and the way Hawke looked so peaceful, sleeping in Anders’ arms.

_It’s not you._

He sighed, ignoring the ache in his chest, the sudden sting in his eyes.  He’d known that for a long time.  Knew it where it bit him deep.  

The ache grew, a gnawing burn.  Still, though, it didn’t matter.  He was fine.  Well, he was going to be fine eventually.  He knew he wasn’t particularly good at feelings.

But he was  _very_  good at denial.

He set ink to paper.   _Dear Bianca_ , he wrote, nib scratching against the vellum, and the steel gleaming in the candlelight glinted gold. 


End file.
